Cold Hands
by ZannaBQ
Summary: John has cold hands. Sherlock helps. J/S, fluff


**Title:** Cold Hands  
**Pairing: **Sherlock/John  
**Raiting: **PG 13  
**Words: **1000  
**Warnings:** none  
**Spoilers:** none  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.  
**Beta: **Laren  
**Summary:** John has cold hands. Sherlock helps. Written for a prompt on the Sherlock BBC kink meme.

* * *

**Cold Hands**

Another icy winter morning, another murder scene, and of course the police had been at a loss about the how and why of the murder. That was the reason why John was here now, at seven o'clock in the morning, freezing his arse off and watching Sherlock Holmes bouncing around the crime scene like a rubber ball on speed.

Only half an hour ago he'd still been in bed, warm and comfy. And he still could have been there, if it hadn't been for that damn call from Lestrade. Maybe he should switch off every mobile before going to bed from now on. Although, knowing Sherlock, switching them off wouldn't be enough. He would have to take out the batteries and bury them in the backyard if he wanted to have even one text-message-free night.

The idea made John smile. Sherlock probably wouldn't have any problems deducing the hiding-place mere seconds after the fact, so it really was no use. Oh well, at least it wasn't the middle of the night this time. He'd actually had an almost full night's sleep.

He shivered. It was unusually chilly, well into negative degrees, and after the hot deserts of Afghanistan John just wasn't used to the cool climate any more. He was constantly cold, and even although he was wearing his warmest jumper, a thick coat and a scarf right now he was still freezing. Particularly his hands, since he'd lost his gloves two days ago when he and Sherlock had been racing across the city again.

John rubbed his hands against each other to try to warm them. Even the pockets of his coat didn't seem to be enough, he'd tried to bury his hands in them, but it had been useless. His hands and especially his fingers felt like ice. He was starting to lose all feeling in them.

A shadow fell over John and he looked up. Sherlock was standing directly in front of him, as usually ignoring every sense of personal space – not that it bothered John anymore – and staring intently at him. Just as suddenly as he'd appeared in front of John, Sherlock removed his gloves and put them into his pockets and took John's hands into his own, bigger ones.

John shivered again, but this time not from the cold. Sherlock's hands were warm; no, they were hot, just like the man himself. And John didn't mean that figuratively – although that certainly applied, too – but quite literally. Sherlock was tall and lean, and you'd think that he would be the one constantly freezing, but quite the opposite. The man seriously radiated heat, like a furnace. John enjoyed it quite a lot, especially at night, when Sherlock curled around him.

"You forgot your gloves," Sherlock murmured, slightly rubbing John's hands.

"I lost them," John answered quietly, and suddenly he didn't mind that anymore. Sherlock was way better than any gloves could be.

"You should have said something," Sherlock chided. Then he lifted John's hands to his mouth and breathed on them.

"Mhm," John answered, but he'd already forgotten what the conversation had been about. He stared at Sherlock through lowered eyelids, almost like in trance. The sight of his lover, cradling his hands in his own and breathing on them was too mesmerising.

Not that it was really surprising for John. Sherlock had turned out to be an incredibly tactile and affectionate lover, much to John's surprise. Sherlock really seemed to like touching John and he certainly wasn't shy in doing so, no matter where they were at the moment. Not that John minded, he loved this aspect of Sherlock, but it still gave him a little thrill whenever Sherlock did it in public. Maybe it was because he still wanted to jump up and down and shout _Mine! Mine! Mine! You can't have him, he's mine!_ at everyone who tried to flirt with Sherlock or even looked at Sherlock when they were out and about.

Sherlock, who had been focused on John's hands, suddenly looked up and met John's gaze. He smiled his private smile, the one that was meant for John alone, and started to press little kisses on John's hands. John's answering smile reached from ear to ear (at least it felt like it did), and what was even better, his hands started to slowly warm up.

"Oh get a room you two!"

Lestrade's loud voice cut into their little private moment, and John turned his head. He had completely forgotten that they weren't alone, that they were in fact at the scene of a – pretty grisly by the looks of it – murder. Lestrade was still standing next to the murder victim, but he was turned towards Sherlock and John, hands on his hips and scowling at them. Anderson and Donovan where standing a little bit to the side, but they too were staring at them, open-mouthed in Anderson's case and a little bit envious and wistful in Donovan's.

"I'm going to puke," Anderson finally said and threw a disgusted look at them.

"Anderson, do try not to botch this murder scene more up than you already did," Sherlock replied without taking his eyes off John. He stopped his pecks however and took his gloves out of his pockets. But instead of donning them himself he put them on John's hands. John smiled thankfully at him.

"We'll buy you new ones later," Sherlock murmured when he fastened the last glove on John's left hand.

"Sherlock!" Lestrade called out again. "We have a murder here, if you don't mind! You can coddle your boyfriend later!"

"Yes, please!" Anderson added. "Preferably where I don't have to watch it – it's disgusting!"

"Envy does nothing for your complexion, Anderson," Sherlock stated casually, passing him on his way back to Lestrade and the murder victim.

John watched the verbal sparring with a smile, wrapped in his warmest jumper, a thick coat, a scarf and gloves; and thanks to Sherlock he was finally feeling warm from head to toe.

The End


End file.
